Page 41 of Claimed By the Alien Prince

CARYS

I watch Zevran stride toward his mother, his posture taut, voice low. Even from here, I can see the way his shoulders tense. He looks shaken—like a tree in a storm, bending but not breaking.

Did I say something wrong? My heart races, anxiety spiraling as I try to make sense of the shifting dynamics around us. Is he angry with me again? Just when I thought we were on the same page, everything seems to teeter on the edge.

I turn away from their hushed conversation, feeling small in this grand hall surrounded by Kiphian decor and regal displays. Seeking distraction, I wander to the nearest window and peer out into the vibrant expanse of Verus below.

The treetop kingdom stretches like an intricate tapestry, woven together by nature and artistry. Canopies glow softly with bioluminescence while orbs glide gracefully between platforms high above the forest floor. Yet beneath this beauty lies a murky uncertainty.

What do they think of me out there? Do they know who I am? A human among Kiphians—a scientist turned unwitting pawn in a game of political intrigue.

Do they whisper about me? Are my actions already part of their tales? The notion sends a chill down my spine. The man who will someday be their king has mated with a human—and that carries weight beyond anything I can comprehend.

I imagine eyes narrowing at my presence in their royal halls, sneers hidden behind polite smiles as they contemplate what my existence means for their culture—an outsider who dares tread on sacred ground. Will they hate me for it? Will they see me as an invader rather than a guest?

I glance back at Zevran, still deep in conversation with his mother. The tension in the room wraps around me like a suffocating vine. As I wrestle with my thoughts, Aran’tha approaches, her movements fluid and purposeful. Her eyes hold a mix of calculation and something softer.

“You’re doing well,” she says, her voice low enough to keep the conversation private, almost conspiratorial. The softness of her tone contrasts sharply with the tension that lingers in the air, like a taut string ready to snap. “All this will blow over eventually; it’s just a matter of time.”

“I’m not so sure,” I reply, crossing my arms tightly across my chest, as if to shield myself from her words and the heavy atmosphere pressing down on me.

“Things feel… unstable. Like the ground beneath me could give way at any moment.” I glance around, half expecting the very walls of this grand hall to close in on me, suffocating me in their opulence.

She studies me for a moment, her pale rose-gold eyes narrowing, assessing my resolve. Then, with a cautious movement, she leans in closer, bridging the gap between us. “If you still want to leave, I can help,” she whispers, an edge of urgency threading through her voice.

The offer surprises me, catching me off guard. I blink, momentarily speechless, grappling with the implications of her willingness to aid me in escaping this precarious situation. “I… don’t want to leave,” I admit finally, my voice wavering slightly as uncertainty creeps in.

This place is fraught with danger and intrigue, a whirlwind of political machinations and lurking shadows, yet something about it keeps pulling me back—Zevran. His presence feels like an anchor in this tempest, grounding me even as the world around us spins wildly.

Aran’tha's brow furrows deeply, her expression tightening as if my answer pains her in some profound way. “That’s a genuine shame,” she sighs, shaking her head slowly, her cool-toned green skin shimmering subtly in the light filtering through the enormous windows of the grand hall.

“You could have a life outside this court—one that doesn’t involve constant threats and poisoned tea lurking at every corner. ”

“Is that really what you think? That I’m only here for the adventure?

” My heart races, pounding like a drum against the confines of my chest as frustration surges within me.

“I didn’t ask for any of this! You think I want to be your political pawn?

” The words spill out, raw and unfiltered, as I struggle to contain the tumult of emotions swirling inside me.

Her expression hardens slightly at my outburst, the sharpness in her gaze reflecting the weight of her experience.

“You don’t understand what’s truly at stake here,” she replies, her voice taking on a steely edge that cuts through the tension in the air.

“Zevran has enemies everywhere, lurking in the shadows of this kingdom. Some would kill to see him fall, to see this entire court crumble under their ambitions.” The gravity of her words hangs heavy between us, creating a palpable tension that feels almost suffocating.

The room seems to shrink, the ornate details of the hall fading into the background as I absorb the reality of her warning.

The intricate tapestries that adorn the walls, depicting tales of past victories and betrayals, take on a darker significance.

I realize that I am caught in a web of intrigue far beyond my comprehension, and my place in it is anything but secure.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re important now.” She gestures vaguely between us as if trying to convey some greater meaning that eludes me. “Your choices matter—not just for yourself but for him too.”

Before I can respond, a sudden shift in the air steals my breath.

Cold metal presses against my temple.

Gasps erupt around us—sharp breaths punctuating the heavy silence.

Zevran’s gaze snaps toward me; fury ignites his emerald eyes like flames licking through dry leaves.

“Aran’tha!” he roars, his voice deep and commanding as he lunges forward.

But it’s too late; she speaks before he can reach us.

“He doesn’t deserve the throne,” she spits out venomously. Her grip on the weapon shakes slightly—a mix of anger and desperation evident on her face. “I’ve worked too hard—this thing has ruined everything!”

Time stretches painfully thin as I stare at her, mind racing with fear and confusion. The very air feels charged with an impending explosion.

Then—

Before he can reach us?—

Aran’tha chokes, gasping as if she’s been struck by an unseen force.

She crumples to the floor beside me, and all eyes turn toward the source of shock: The Queen stands behind her, blade dripping crimson against polished stone.

“No one harms the heir’s mate,” she declares fiercely, her presence suddenly monumental in its wrathful protection.